


「 torches 」

by ToasTea



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: ANGST ANGST ANGST and then you know ho p e, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst with a Hopeful Ending, F/M, Jorah motherfucking Mormont lives, grey worm being that gud brokowski to dany tho, i wont be able to count all these damn post 8x03 crap i have on one hand anymore, jbear come baaaack, post 8x03 because i know no other apparently lmfao
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-24
Updated: 2020-08-26
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:28:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26083456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ToasTea/pseuds/ToasTea
Summary: Even when their victory against the dead blesses their halls and hearths with warmth, she continues battling against the blistering cold left in the wake of his absence. Vain, desperate, foolish, childish. Hope. Love. Whatever it may be, let it be the light that ushers him back to her side.
Relationships: Grey Worm & Daenerys Targaryen, Jorah Mormont/Daenerys Targaryen
Comments: 41
Kudos: 68





	1. g[1] - you're not alone now hold the torches

**Author's Note:**

> Hi yes hello 2020 sucks turdballs, everything is on fire and our future is as bright as Trump’s bum crack. ᕦ( ᐛ )ᕤ
> 
> I present to this beautiful fandom another short ‘n sweet Jorleesi ball of fire by me spawned after rolling in my bed until 5am. From like. Forever ago. Surprise, not surprise, it's another 8x03 AU with jbear alive lmao someone please take this controller away from me. (I swear tho it's a bit diff from the others, trust. SORT OF.) Also I need a little bit of practice for my peanut brain so my receiver for the Jorleesi Exchange doesn't catch these 72 hands of disappointment lul. 
> 
> Sorry for splitting this into two parts, it got a lot longer than I expected. RIP. Next part is a bit shorter my baaad.
> 
> Shoutout to the amazeballs Wildfire1988 for letting me vent to her about my potato ass and the current state of the world. They’re part of the reason why I was able to start getting back on track. Thanks smoochums, I’d fly you to the moon and back any day of the week. No holiday pay necessary. Love you lots. It’s not much and pretty simple (probs hella unoriginal too LMFAO rip), but if you see this I'm dedicating this dumpsterfire to you from the depths of my lukewarm heart. ᕕ( ᐛ )ᕗᕕ( ᐛ )ᕗ ~~(also i’m sorry i haven’t responded in like forever ive been trying to tell myself to FINISH THIS before i do anything else dont send glitter bombs to my door step pls)~~
> 
> Loosley inspired by “Torches” by best girl Aimer.
> 
> Please forgive any mistakes or general fuckery you find throughout this thing, it’s been awhile and I have 3 kids to feed (PS4, Switch and PC take a toll on this gamer life financially)

“No, there's been no changes, Your Grace,” says Samwell.

The queen draws a deep breath, her eyes betray the image she must uphold with apprehension no ruler should ever display so openly. There is still strength left to maintain her duty, though it is fueled purely out of the regal obligation branded to her since birth. 

Grey Worm notices how prominent this has become nights following the battle. He is still learning, but Missandei's steadfast presence and lessons have been softening his struggles.

Battle and blood were the only languages taught to him. Unsullied were raised by combat and survival. To nullify human weaknesses that did not belong to vermin. To serve the masters who commanded him and die for them if need be without question. Anything that was not a sword or spear was unnecessary for an Unsullied. 

But because of Daenerys Stormborn, he has discovered things he thought he had disposed of at boyhood. Like buried treasure waiting to be discovered with Missandei as the map destined to guide him.

Because of her, the curse under “Grey Worm” has been broken and learned what the masters had robbed him of. 

Because of her, he was able to meet Missandei of N’aath. 

And because of Missandei of N’aath, he is able to understand and see the uncertainty strewn across the queen’s features. 

He recognizes that fear. The scar left behind from the Sons of Harpy ambush and constant battles fought in the name of the queen are constant reminders. It presses its weight against his chest to make sure he remembers the treacherous path he walks as a warrior with someone precious to him. 

“But there will be,” she says, more curt than usual, a command rather than a question. The sharpness leaves little room for anything but what she wishes to hear.

Sam chews the bottom of his lip, contemplating, twiddling his clasped fingers.

“Yes, Your Grace," he says a beat later, “there will be...but-”

“You imply that you have yet to do all you can for my strongest general?” she bites, impulsively. 

Like a hidden command, his fingers, dutifully clasped behind his back, twitch towards his dagger. Grey Worm will punish those who deny the queen of what they promised if she commands it. Especially when the man in question is precious to the queen.

“No, Your Grace!” Sam exclaims, hands flying up to defend, “I swear on my son’s life I’ve done all I could.” 

The boy only dares to continue when her shoulders eventually resign to the sinking weight of Jorah the Andal’s uncertain fate and she turns to face the window where her features remain unseen. Grey Worm is aware of how she must preserve what strength she had left to maintain her queenly facade. 

A queen is similar to a warrior. They are only separated by politics. She must be strong. She must not be weak. Her enemies must not see. But there are no enemies here in this private quarter assigned to Jorah the Andal, and he knows there is more than just a queen underneath. Just as he is more than just a soldier.

Even the strongest of dragons must rest their wings.

“Not an ounce of what Maester Ebrose has taught me was spared,” Sam assures softly, “but...I would never lie to you, Your Grace. Someone with Ser Jorah’s wounds would have been on a pyre by now. Not here.”

She knows this. Grey Worm as well. Her silence tells him all.

The young maester is still speaking, something about swearing to watch over the knight in her absence but his words are softly muted to Grey Worm. Even when her gaze is fixed on Winterfell’s dimly lit yard below with her hands clasped at her stomach, he knows she is suffering. He can see it strung across her stiff shoulders and coil around her tense posture, waiting to spring free.

"Leave me," she commands.

Everyone in the room obliges. Samwell, the soldiers behind him. Duty commands him to obey his queen’s orders. 

But he remains because something precious between the four of them - Jorah the Andal, Missandei, Daenerys - tethers him to this room, even under the curious glances from his retreating brothers. 

He is more than just the commander of The Unsullied. When the wooden doors creak shut and they are left with only the fire in the hearth and the soft glow of the evening sky trickling in through the windows, he is her friend. 

She is aware of his lingering presence. He is familiar enough for her to safely release a heavy breath that relieves her shoulders and lowers her head. Still, she does not turn away from the window to look at him, not even a glance at the man covered bandages and bundled in furs on the bed beside them. 

He frees his fingers from their prison behind his back, balling them into fists by his side. In their absence, their lessons light the path he must take in order to give what his friend needs the most in this cold and foreign country. 

Missandei misses her home. There are times where the bright sun above the beautiful blue sea that surrounds N’aath and its homely sea-salt scent becomes more than just a loving memory. It can be painful when it wishes to be. He was unfamiliar with the tears that ran down her face the first time he returned to their chambers in Mereen one night, not knowing what was wrong. 

What _he_ did wrong. What he should do. He did not understand. He cannot slay her sadness as he does with the queen’s enemies. Hurting her was just as fearful as not being able to see her again.

_”Sometimes, just your presence can be the words people need to hear.”_

He did not understand Jorah the Andal the first time. 

But when he found the courage to approach Missandei again and she whispered so sweetly, so patient of his adolescent humanity with her honey brown eyes brimmed with tears, _”You being here is enough, Torgo Nudho,”_ he understood. 

Jorah the Andal simply gave him the tome he needed and Missandei taught him the language it was written in so that he may purge what the clouds that hang over the remainder of his humanity. 

Since then, he understood. His presence can be just as strong as the shield he carries. Even without it, he can still protect. 

Her shoulders begin to tremble, but he wouldn’t have noticed if it were a shade darker. Her soft and quiet sniffles, however, ring loud against the silence between them.

Even now, when they are protected from piercing gazes or supercilious whispers, she tries to keep the cracks from going any further.

Grey Worm must protect the friend that grieves for the man who is precious to her. He has done it twice before when Greyscale took Jorah the Andal away from her. He will do it again for as long as there is still breath in him. 

He must, even if that ghostly weight presses against his chest again until it manifests as a thorn when he glances over at the wounded man. His jaw is tight and he can feel the nails digging a touch deeper into his skin.

This pain is familiar. He shares a piece of what the queen feels. 

_”The queen cries for Jorah the Andal, but I feel this pain as well. I do not understand why,” he inquires as they are seated on one of the balconies of the pyramid._

_”Empathy,” says Missandei._

_“Empathy,” he repeats._

_She shifts her gaze to the city below bustling with activity, a soft smile follows the sadness glazing over her eyes. “Ser Jorah is precious to her. You see that in us. That’s why.”  
_

But it is more than just that, he now knows. This pain reminds him of the loss of a brother. Fellow Soldier. Sparring partner. Teacher. Friend. They spoke little with each other, but they never needed to in order for Jorah the Andal to become more than just another soldier serving the same queen to him. 

Grey Worm tears his gaze away from the knight and takes a few steps forward until he is shoulder to shoulder with her at the window. He stands tall beside her as the onslaught of emotions furling around her form makes her smaller, more vulnerable. 

He does not look. He does not have to in order to see the tears threatening to cascade down her cheeks. She thinks of it as a burden as he once did with himself and he will respect the pride she still wishes to preserve even with him. 

His duty is to protect her and he must shield her from the storm inside her heart and its torrential pour threatening to drown her. 

He cannot be Missandei’s gentle assurances nor can he be Jorah the Andal’s wisdom. He has never believed in gods, but being liberated by Daenerys Stormborn and meeting Missandei of N’aath has made him believe in hope.

So he offers her what he himself knows for sure, something rooted and as true as the freedom of choice he was given that fateful day, and finally strikes at the despair capitalizing on the silence lingering between them and closing in on his friend.

“Jorah the Andal is the bravest, most strongest warrior I know,” he says, his timbre is softer, discarded of its warrior rigidity he carries during the day. 

“The Night King is dead,” he continues, “but Jorah the Andal still stands.”

It is simple. It is the truth. It is as grounded to reality as much as the breath that still lingers within the knight. 

It is strong enough to lift her head and tear her gaze away from the window and linger on his form. He takes this as her permission to see and turns so that his eyes meet her tearful hues, lips slightly parted as though she was recalling something. Something she was close to losing as the week continued on without her strongest general by her side.

It is small and brief, but fleeting nonetheless, like a dying fire that needed to be rekindled in order to discover its strength again. It is enough for her to remain strong without surrendering to the cracks that threaten to pull her down to their inescapable grasp. 

The gentle smile that only those she held close could see, slowly graces her lips and relieves him of that thorn against his chest, and tells him he has fulfilled his duty to her as her friend.

Words never came to him easily, but Daenerys Jelmazmo is one of the only few people who could understand and value the silence he speaks, the rare words he permits, and the unflinching presence he offers. 

And as simple as his words were, she offers the same in the language they speak as friends, gently grasping at his forearm and hoarsely whispering, “thank you.”


	2. d[2] - a burning torch in a storm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the final part to this short lil story. A bit of a different take on familiar grounds.
> 
> Writing from Grey Worm's POV was incredibly daunting and frankly, I had no idea what I was doing. But based on your feedback, I think I did the goodest of boys some good at least. 
> 
> As always, thank you for your support. In whatever shape or form you choose to show your love within the boundaries of AO3 is much appreciated. Truly. From the depths of my lukewarm heart. Y'all are the best for letting me milk the crap out of 8x03 AUs like a corporate pig with all these different little ideas as I get back into the writing rhythm. Same cake, different filling ya feel. 
> 
> Hmu with those brownies if you catch that microscopic peen hair shoutout I put in this story to best waifu ladymelodrama (I couldn't help myself MUH BAD. ILY). It really be like that when I read your stories fam. *Insert evil Spongeboob laugh* I'm calling it now, that series is so amazing and expanded that one day there's going to be fanfiction to your fanfiction loool. Here lemme give that little domino some lean action 😂 <3
> 
> Anyways, much love. Hope you guys enjoy. See y'all in a few weeks. <3

“Go,” Daenerys says, “I’ll be alright.”

She sees a sliver of hesitation flicker across her commander’s features, but she will have none of that. It is late and she will not keep him from Missandei any longer. So she nods towards Jorah’s resting form and using the quiet strength Grey Worm’s words had imbued her with, she assures, “I have him.”

A lingering tension remains coiled around Grey Worm’s posture, but being born and bred in combat, it is more instinctual than anything. But it softens by a hair, something that could be easily missed by others, when his gaze follows her gesture to the injured knight over his shoulder. 

She remembers how stiff he was back in Mereen and Yunkai, how he would constantly struggle with formalities even without Tyrion or Varys looming in the room. Memories of his first steps adjusting to a life where he had a choice in contrast to who he’s become today warms her. And when he turns to meet her gaze again, the little uptick at the corner of his lips paired with his softened features only stokes the comforting flame he’s helped rekindle within her heart.

His fingers uncurl from its fisted form and wrap around her forearm, as gentle as the moon’s white glow yet firm and protective as the stone walls that spare them from the rest of Winterfell. He respectfully bows and leaves without another word. There was no need for him to say more. His eyes, his honesty, his presence were all she needed to hear. 

The door gently creaks shut behind his retreating form and she uses her sleeve to wipe away the remaining tears in her eyes. She has mourned enough the past week, absorbed guidance from her small council and love from the few who council and protect the heart beneath the queen. They have helped her gather the pieces of her broken heart. She must bring to fruition the quiet strength they have gifted her and begin piecing it back together.

She must start with him and confront what she has closed her eyes to this whole time if she is to ever find the eye of the storm.

When Daenerys takes her place by his side, she foregoes the chair by the bed frame and opts for the little space by him on the bed. The memory of that horrid night drives her to close as much distance between them as possible after nearly losing him. 

There is an ache in her heart seeing him riddled in bandages, an ache so different yet so familiar that feeds off of the reason why she lacked any significant injuries besides minor scrapes and bruises. It is a pain she should have felt in the wake of Jon Snow’s indifference during the feast, but she feels nothing. He feels like a nuisance at this point, and she feels as though she has been ironically chained to that name since the night of their victory. 

There is no room left for Jon Snow. Remnants of that flame have no place for the one that’s been rekindled, and she will gladly let the rest fade along with the remainders of winter. 

Her hand reaches for his face. When her fingers touch his cheek, it is different than before.

Just like entering the searing hot bath for the first time, her immunity to fire unbeknownst to her, she does not pull away. It is not painful, but she feels as though she is touching him for the first time. 

_They are the only children I will ever have._

A past declaration is brought to the forefront of her thoughts. 

Like a missing puzzle piece that was hidden well enough that anyone looking at the picture it presented would never see unless they took a closer look. 

She remembers then, the feel of his blond-grey whiskers against her fingernails, the way his lips parted as they carved a path down his cheek, the way he leaned into her hand when the skin of her fingers lapsed against his earlobe. The way his blue eyes bore into hers as she turned what was infesting his heart into a curse. 

Her fingers are gentle, mindful of his bruises and lacerations, softly tracing his profile, trailing down his prickly stubble, brushing past his lips. 

_You counseled me against rashness in Qarth. I didn't listen, but all worked out well._

She remembers the way his eyes drew to his feet, a bashful little smile curving his lips and lifting the laugh lines around his cheeks. The quiet chuckle that slipped under his knightly facade. He was not wearing his armor, and perhaps he was wishing he wore it then like it would hide it any better, but seeing the soft man beneath that yellow golden shirt shined brighter than the sun above Mereen. 

The image is all the more vivid and endearing to her now in her memory than it was in person, and warms her heart as much as the life beating beneath his skin assures her he is alive. 

She softens significantly when her hand reaches his chest, just above his heart where the wound, had it been a breath closer, should have been fatal. 

Her breath hitches. 

Tears threaten to pool once more, but they are warded off by feelings awakening from a deep slumber within her heart.

An ache that is neither painful nor free of it, a longing that feels so different yet so native, a feeling she has felt before with other men but has never felt at all.

Its scorching imprint is stronger than Balerion’s flame and deeper than the Jade Sea. 

She is in love with him. 

Her hand slowly retracts from his chest, not from the burn of realization, but so that she may thumb the necklace stringing her mother’s ring around her neck. Something she never thought she would see again until he returned it to her in Vaes Dothrak. 

Reaching for it was a reflex born from her feelings for him, as spontaneous and fateful as the day they met. 

_Is this what you’ve endured? Is this the curse you bore as you served me?_

It should not surprise her. The strength to stand by her side as she leeched his service and brought other men to her bed should have been as clear as day to her. It is only when he stood by her side and took the blades meant for her that night does she realize how blind she has been. 

He is as stubborn and strong as the bear on his house flag and she adores him all the more for it. 

_Is this how heavy it is? Is this my reckoning?_

It is not her fault. 

It never was, but she must heal what has been wrought between them as though it were a punishment.

This curse is hers to bear now as well. 

She needs him to come back. He must know.

 _He already does,_ a part of her echoes.

 _Yes,_ she thinks, _but not all of it_

He always came back. 

“I never thought I would see this again,” she whispers to him, even though she knows he cannot hear, eyes drawn to her necklace in hand. “I never thought I would see you again.”

Just as he has given her his love, loyalty, she must give him purpose.

 _Home,_ she loosely adds, _come home, Jorah._

She lifts the necklace, freeing it from her neck. 

She feels a pang of guilt for imposing on him, enforcing a command despite fighting an ongoing battle against death’s grasp. He would follow it even in death, that she knows, but a part of her cannot deny the selfishness that threatens to drag her to the darkest abyss. Even so, she must command him once more if she is to heal what has been broken. 

“Forgive me, my sweet bear,” she whispers hoarsely, “but your life is no longer only yours to live.” 

Her fingers coil around his neck, the brush of his soft little curls fills her heart with a touch of mirth. She lifts him just enough so that she could loop her necklace around him and gently moves the ring so that it is placed above his wound.

“Come back to me,” she continues, her words coming off as a soft and quiet prayer rather than a command. "Come back to me and return this to me, as you did before."

It is pitifully desperate. Foolish. Vain even.

But let them judge. Let the storm rage on as they trample and douse the last torch she clings to, for as long as it is there, she will continue to kindle it until it grows into a brilliant blaze. When he looks back, he will not be lost because the flame she has ignited for him is there.

She will light his way back as many times as she must as childish as it may sound. She will become things she must not and challenge in the unknown in order for him to come back to her. He has sacrificed so much for her, and it is time she do the same. 

And above all, she is a dragon. True to her nature, she will take back what is hers in fire and blood, even under death’s watchful and unforgiving eye.

**Author's Note:**

> @me ty /rFanfiction  
> 


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